


Framed

by grapehyasynth



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, Meet-Cute, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 10:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19171042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Patrick owns a frame store in Toronto. One day, David Rose walks in.





	Framed

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I told myself I wouldn't get back into writing fanfic, so maybe this will be a one-off thing, but between how good this show is, how impossible it is to get these two out of my head, and how tremendous the other fics on here are, THIS happened. Thank you for letting me play in this sandbox!! Inspired by this Instagram post: https://www.instagram.com/p/ByGtKTzHbXa/?utm_source=ig_web_options_share_sheet
> 
> Also, I hate the title. I apologize.

David Rose comes into the store on an October afternoon. Patrick, having been raised with proper manners, acts like he’s just another customer, though he couldn’t look more out of place. His sweater, which manages to be loud despite being entirely black and white, makes him look a bit larger-than-life in the tiny shop, his coiffed hair almost up to the ceiling.

 “Hi there, welcome to Brewer Frames.  Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

 David smiles faintly, with a hint of condescension, and turns away to scan the wall of frames. He walks along it with his hands clasped behind his back like he’s in the Louvre, nose inches from the displays. Patrick can’t see his face, but from the way his shoulders slowly inch up, he’s guessing the Rose heir isn’t finding their pieces up to his standards.

 Reaching the end of the wall - it doesn’t take more than a few steps, especially not with legs that long - David pivots and comes to the counter where Patrick is repairing some inventory that came in a little worse for wear. Patrick sets the glue down and rubs his hands together, smiling helpfully.

 “Hi,” David simpers, curling his body in a bit. “Patrick,” he adds, glancing at Patrick’s name stitched into his blue polo. “Love the music. Um, do you have the larger items in the back, because I have this new collection in my gallery and none of the paintings are smaller than 12 by 18, so none of this--,” he gestures broadly to the store behind him, rings glinting, “--will really work.”

 “Nnnnnno, nope,” Patrick replies apologetically, “what you see here is pretty much it.”

 David’s looking at Patrick like he thinks he’s sweet, if a bit dim. “Okay, it’s just that your reviews said you were the best low-budget frame store in the city, so.”

 “That may be true, but our clientele tends more towards kindergarten teachers, family-run restaurants, and new business owners, not--”

 “ _Yes_?” David demands testily.

 “Sorry,this may be inappropriate,” Patrick says, sidestepping whatever description of David he’d almost just blurted out, “but - aren’t you David Rose? Shouldn’t you be...custom-ordering your frames from some woman in Iceland who uses only the wood of banyan trees finished with rare precious metals?” This is going against every rule of customer service Patrick knows, but he’s enjoying himself.

 David squeezes his eyes shut as if praying for patience. “I know that you’re mocking me, but those frames sound _divine_ , and if that woman exists I’d really like to know. And yes, I should be, and normally those would be exactly the ineffable standards I’d apply to every item in my gallery space, but, if you must know, I recently discovered that my parents have been...more involved in my business ventures than I’d like, and I’m trying to forge out on my own. For real this time. Which means relocating to Toronto, making my own connections with artists-”

 “And scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to frames,” Patrick finishes for him.

 “No offense,” David says, genuinely seeming to mean it. “I just...wouldn’t even put my business license in one of these. Which reminds me, I should really check that I _have_ a business license,” he mutters, scowling down at his phone as he types out a note.

 “Sounds like you’re off to a _great_ start already,” Patrick comments.

 “Thanks _so much_ for all your help,” David shoots back, voice high with sarcasm. “This has been fun. For me. So much fun.”

 He’s turning to go, and Patrick can’t let that happen - he’s pretty sure David hates him, or at the very least thinks Patrick is beneath him and will forget him the second he’s out the door, but this _has_ been the most fun Patrick’s had in years, volleying barbs back and forth, and he’s trying to be more impulsive when it comes to going for what he wants, so he slides his business card across the counter. “Here’s my number. I think you might need it. In case you find that license. Or if you need help getting one. My major was in business, not frames, as your luck would have it.”

 This, of all things, seems to make David slow down for a moment. He looks down at the card, touches it with a fingertip where it sits on the edge of the counter.

 “That’s a...generous offer,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you know what you’d be in for. I’m told I can be a lot.”

 “Maybe,” Patrick shrugs. He nudges the card towards David with his knuckles. “But it sounds like you need some help. You need a _lot_ of help,” he corrects himself.

 David finally looks up, his smirk back in place. Just for a second, though, he’d forgotten to guard himself quite so much, Patrick thinks.

 “You are either very impatient or _extremely_ sure of yourself.”

 Patrick leans forward on his elbows, grinning. “You might say you have re _frame_ your perspective--”

 “No, no,” David cuts him off, waving his hands in disgust, “we’re not doing puns, we already have one punny guy in my family, we don’t need another Ted - not that you’re family, or going to be, or whatever--” He laughs awkwardly and half-covers his face with one hand, mouth twisting in self-remonstrance.

 Patrick realizes that David is the kind of person who can actually fall for someone that quickly, can go in just ten minutes from meeting someone to imagining them slotting into his life, or imagine himself slotting into theirs. With his fame, that’s really a dangerous propensity to have, especially when there’s someone out here like Patrick, willing to fall right into that fantasy with him. Because as outlandish as David first appears, Patrick can picture David making Patrick’s mom laugh, snarking at the news with his dad, leaning against the kitchen counter while Patrick makes them both dinner. He’d be alarmed by this train of thought if it weren’t clear that David’s riding the same route.

 “I don’t normally do puns, actually,” he says, as quickly as he can, to cover David’s discomfort. “I’m more of a sports metaphor guy.”

 “Oh god, that’s so much worse,” David groans, but he’s smiling, and Patrick thinks that for all his ragged edges, David’s teasing has a softness to it.

 There’s a beat of awkward silence in which David contemplates Patrick’s face and Patrick contemplates what to do next. Giving David his business card had been his big move, because while he’s a take-charge guy, he’s also new to this and he’s a little intimidated by David and how much he likes him. Patrick has seen the Sebastien Raine photos - had a small sexual awakening to them, really. He understands why people would want to take pictures of David - beautiful, electric, difficult-to-pin-down David Rose. But Patrick would never do what Raine did. Patrick would write poetry and hymns about David, and he would whisper them into David’s neck and the inside of his wrist and the jut of his hip, art for an audience of one, unless David said otherwise.

 “Thank you again,” David softly, finally says, stepping back from the counter. “You didn’t need to offer to help me. I do feel like I should warn you, though,” he continues, and Patrick can feel the moment his tone shifts to playful, “that there are people who would eat you alive in this big city, for being that friendly and generous.”

 “Ah.” Patrick smiles. He’s just been thinking the same about David, that his vulnerability will get him hurt, with the wrong people. “Am I that obviously a country boy?” 

David hums, nodding emphatically. “Mm. Mhm. Yes, very much so. But... not in a bad way?”

 Patrick’s chest feels golden and fizzy and warm, but David is backing away, towards the door, which is completely the wrong direction - but he hesitates on the threshold, traces a finger along a nondescript, corporate silver frame.

 “You should come visit the gallery. If you want. Um - most of the art is atrocious, frankly, but every now and then there’s something-” He gestures, fingers curled expressively, but he can’t seem to find the word.

 “I don’t know anything about art,” Patrick says, helplessly, stupidly, because he’d go to the gallery right now, if he didn’t have a store to run.

 “Well, that much is obvious,” David chuckles, looking around him. “But - and don’t tell the _Times_ I said this - I don’t think you actually need to know anything about art to appreciate it, most of the time. I think it’s more about your willingness to go inside yourself? Or sometimes step out of yourself. I don’t know,” he shrugs, cheeks pinking with embarrassment.

 Patrick’s throat feels tight. “That’s a beautiful sentiment, David,” he murmurs.

 “Is it?” David cringes.

 “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

 David looks at him, looks at him and also _lets him look_ , and then he glances up at the ceiling, his eyes red. “Whew. This is a lot for one day,” he laughs shakily.

 “Not buying a frame, you mean?” Patrick offers gently, fondly. He’s known the man all of twenty minutes and he feels so fucking fond he wants to give himself a sedative.

 David smiles gratefully, and Patrick feels his heart swell so that it expands his ribcage and makes room for this tall, wild, fragile man to nest inside. “Yes, Patrick. I’m devastated by my failure to purchase an adequate frame today.”

 “Better luck next time, then.”

 David nods, lips sucked in between his teeth; he’s trying to hide a smile, Patrick can tell, but his whole face lights up with it. His long fingers are gripping the door frame, like he can’t tear himself away. “Goodbye Patrick.”

 “Goodbye David. See you soon.”


End file.
